


Wheel of Fortune

by MnM_ov_doom



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: A lot of sex, M/M, Reymas if you squint, and a bit of fluff because I did this, request, with plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 01:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12048468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/pseuds/MnM_ov_doom
Summary: The Wheel of Fortune goes on and on, and what was once profane is now holy.The bounty hunter couldn't believe the new-arrived to the estate - the flagellant - was the prostitute he had had feelings for, many years before.And the feelings were still there.*requested*





	Wheel of Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> An anon requested this on my other Flagellant fic (Pax Vobis) and heck, it was like... the high peak of my writing career. ;-; Whoever you are, anon, thank you so much for requesting me to write something!
> 
> As a side note, this got a little out of hand... I hope you don't mind. And I ended up approaching a few ideas that I'm going to develop in more detail in "Pax Vobis".
> 
> (also, my investigations about the Flagellant on Tumblr were very... interesting.)

Tardif makes his way along a dark narrow alley. The sun is setting, casting most of the big city in shadows, and he moves exactly like a shadow – silent, unnoticed until it had already reached your position.

The bounty hunter isn’t very fond of the big city – the scent, the noise, but especially the crowds: too many people that can see him, and he likes to be discreet; and too many innocents who might accidentally fall into a trap that isn’t meant for them.

But Tardif is still young, on his early twenties, and he knows one day his skills will be sharp enough to cease his naïve concerns about collateral damage.

The bounty hunter has been on the road for a week, chasing a wealthy bourgeois an unimportant nobleman wanted dead, but the wealthy bourgeois seemed to always be a step ahead of Tardif. The bounty hunter is tired and frustrated and needs to relax. Urgently, or he won’t be able to focus. He knows the wealthy bourgeois is somewhere in the city – somewhere – and he hopes that the man he’s about to meet might help him: it has happened before, that man knowing who the bounty hunter was after and selling them out for him.

That man, Tardif likes him. What it means, he doesn’t know. But they have known each other for a couple of years now, and at some point, it wasn’t merely physical anymore; he wouldn’t say they are friends… but they are friends. They trust each other, and when there’s a chance, they help each other. The bounty hunter doesn’t quite remember how it started, how the ice was broken; maybe one night he had just casually asked the man if he hadn’t, by chance, been with his target; or the man had just casually commented, by chance, he had been with someone who seemed very agitated, like they were being chased, and had then described them for the bounty hunter. 

Besides, the man is discreet, working in his own house and not in the street, something the bounty hunter appreciates since he believes he wouldn’t have these much employers if they knew about his… preferences. In fact, he had only realised the man was a prostitute by chance; he was passing by near a barber shop, and overheard a low conversation between him and another man, rich and well-dressed.

On top of it… the man doesn't complain when Tardif is rough – and he is most times, and the bounty hunter had been thrilled upon realizing he had found someone at the level of his needs. In fact, the man seems to enjoy it as much as the bounty hunter does.

Tardif finally reaches the end of the alley; an old two-stories house, the peeling paint exposing the wood boards underneath it. The wood-shutters of the windows are closed, and on the door there is a sign saying «closed».

The bounty hunter leans against the wall of another house and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait much, though; shortly after a fat and short man, stuffed into an expensive suit and a top hat, leaves the house. Another man comes outside, wearing only breeches, and he changes the sign at the door to «open».

Tardif pushes himself away from the wall when the fat man is gone and strides to the man changing the sign:

“Where is that man going?” he asks.

The other man, the prostitute, turns around to look at him. The alley is dark, but Tardif doesn’t need light to know the man is smiling. And he is smiling as well, and feels slightly warm:

“The Grand Hotel, room number three, first floor. Wants me to meet him there later,” the prostitute shrugs. “I told him I don’t do domiciliary service, though…”

Tardif looks at the now empty alley; the Grand Hotel isn’t far… He looks at the other man again:

“For how long is that man staying?” he asks:

“He said something about leaving tomorrow, going to the port and catching a boat. A business trip,” the prostitute snorts. “Same old thing, bragging about how much money they have…”

“I’ll be back in an hour or two,” Tardif decides; he can’t risk letting his target escape and extend the hunt. Especially, if his target is heading to the port. And the perspective of finally being able to relax – with his task already completed – has an invigorating effect on him.

The prostitute just nods and turns the sign to «closed» again.

* * *

 

Tardif smiles contentedly and closes his eyes. He has been needing that for a while – sex, all lust and roughness and being in control. Yet he has to admit that simply lying there, in the large bed where so many others lie as well, and feel the other man’s fingers trace circle-like patterns on his chest, feels very good too. And it brings him a feeling of satisfaction that has nothing to do with sex – everyone can have sex from that man, the prostitute… but only Tardif has his affection:

“My next appointment is tomorrow at four in the noon,” the man says and the bounty hunter opens his eyes to look at him.

He’s on his early twenties as well. He’s tall and bulky and his body is muscled and flawless and completely shaved, all for the purpose of giving pleasure. His hair is dark blond, short with a cropped fringe that is damp with sweat. The features of his face are sharp and his chin is strong. Yet his lips were made thin by the bitterness of life, and there is something wild and dangerous lurking from his blue eyes.

Tardif raises a hand to stroke the man’s cheek, all the while looking him in the eyes. The man – too young, just like him, but they both grew up too fast – is a stunning sight, but what Tardif likes the most about him are his eyes; blue, cold and piercing like steel, schooled into apathy despite the _something_ that lurks from them. Something wild and dangerous and powerful, and Tardif has no doubts the man who submits to everyone, given the chance, would be in control. And it would be no good to anyone who stood on his way.

But now that he is with Tardif, something else shows in his eyes. Exhaustion, sadness, and some other things the bounty hunter doesn’t dare to even think about:

“Good, we can sleep until late,” the bounty hunter finally says. The other man smiles, and it’s a genuine smile. He snuggles on Tardif, rests his head on his chest. “I missed you, Damian…”

“I missed you too…” Damian mutters and starts tracing circle-like patterns on the bounty hunter’s chest again. “How long… how long are you staying?”

“Maybe a couple of weeks, I need to relax…” Tardif replies. He had been staying for a couple of weeks since he had first came to Damian; in the beginning just for the sex… but now he would show up just to talk to him, talk about everything and nothing, or to simply have company and snuggle on Damian’s broad and warm body.

And Damian didn’t charge him for that, and if Tardif didn’t force the money into his hands, he wouldn’t even charge for the sex:

“I killed a horse of exhaustion, chasing that fat bourgeois…” Tardif tells with a hint of annoyance, and that makes Damian laugh. His laughter is rough and clumsy, used only in the bounty hunter’s presence. “Slippery, fat rat… But I got him! They’ll find him dead in the bathtub.”

Damian’s laughter dies slowly, and he resumes to silence and to trace the circle-like patterns on the bounty hunter’s chest. He sighs, snuggles even closer to Tardif:

“I can’t say I’m sorry for that…” he mutters. The bounty hunter shifts a little to lie over his side, so that he is facing Damian. Tardif is taller, and Damian hides his face on the crook of Tardif’s neck.

The bounty hunter frowns and wraps his arms around Damian:

“Did he hurt you?” he asks, and already regrets having killed the bourgeois so quickly. Damian chuckles, but there is no joy in that:

“No… but… He isn’t, well, wasn’t…” he pauses, sighs. “They aren’t you, Tardif.”

The bounty hunter licks his lips nervously. When Damian opens up to him – about his clients, about his life – Tardif feels oddly possessive. And angry. His friend should not be treated like that. Damian is a friend, even if they don’t call it like that: he does everything a friend does – he listens, he gives advice, he comforts, he laughs together with Tardif – and he also does more, by answering to all of Tardif’s needs, even if he is exhausted, or hurt, or depressed.

Sometimes Tardif wishes Damian would drop that life… but then, how would they meet? He does not have the courage to ask him to tag along, and excuses his fear with the logical thought that he would never side with another mercenary because that would compromise his profit. He shakes his head; Damian is a prostitute and he is a bounty hunter – another kind of prostitute, selling his services to whoever has enough money. They both seek to please their clients, only through different methods.

Besides… feelings are dangerous in their professions, but they are young and haven’t yet realized they are already doomed.

The bounty hunter doesn’t know what to say. So he simply pulls Damian even closer and makes sure he’s comfortable. They stay like that for a long time, in each other’s arms, until they fall asleep.

* * *

 

Tardif wakes up with the scent of fresh-made porridge. He opens one eye lazily to see Damian sitting on the bed next to him, holding one big bowl and one spoon:

“If you tell me when is your birthday, I could get you new ware…” Tardif offers sleepily and yawns:

“I don’t need two bowls, it’s always just me… and I’m glad to share when you show up,” Damian replies and eats a spoonful of porridge. Tardif sits on the bed, lazily, and Damian hands him the spoon.

A spoonful each, and they eat the porridge in companionable silence.

Damian then prepares them a bath, and they spend the whole morning together in the small iron basin Damian uses to bathe. They tell each other the latest news: Tardif went north in his previous job and was very excited to see the mountains’ peaks covered in snow even now that is Spring, and Damian successfully paid the rent last month and didn’t need to starve to have enough money.

They make lunch together, and even though there isn’t much to cook, they have fun and relish on each other’s company:

“Would’ve made a damn fine baker. Tsk,” Tardif comments when it’s his turn to eat a spoonful of stew – still just one bowl and one spoon for the two of them. Damian smirks and cocks an eyebrow seductively:

“I can see that…” he comments and places a hand on one of Tardif’s muscular arms. The bounty hunter is at ease, simply wearing breeches. He tilts his head, interested, and hands the spoon to Damian:

“What do you see?” he asks, and the way Damian looks at him makes his blood rush south so suddenly he feels slightly dizzy. Damian must know it, because he takes the spoon to his mouth slowly, then pulls it off even slower, making soft sucking noises.

He’s teasing the bounty hunter and Tardif knows Damian is doing it on purpose – and enjoying it. He wonders if Damian teases his other clients as well – and if he enjoys it. He likes to think that doesn’t happen, that he is the only one Damian seduces willingly.

They finish lunch in a hurry and then Tardif pulls Damian to the bed, eagerly:

“Your appointment won’t mind if you are already a bit tired, won’t he?” Tardif asks and throws Damian on the bed. Damian sprawls seductively, tilting his head and exposing his neck:

“It’s a she…” he tells, and Tardif can’t help but feel taken aback. “Don’t look at me like that, she pays good… but I always need an incentive before,” He doesn’t move when Tardif pulls his breeches and underwear off. “Ladies aren’t much of my thing…”

“An incentive you shall have!” the bounty hunter promises and gets rid of his own breeches and underwear, admiring Damian’s body during the entire process.

Damian is beautiful, and it’s very rare when Tardif has the chance to be the first enjoying that man’s body. He supposes that Damian, fresh and full of energy, must be wild and mind blowing.

Damian is already on his four, his legs spread for Tardif, but the bounty hunter lies down and crosses his arms behind his head:

“Work,” he commands his surprised companion. Surprise is instantly replaced by lust, and Damian comes to stand on his knees above Tardif. He reaches out for the bounty hunter’s erection and holds it softly:

“As you wish, master,” Damian purrs, and his voice and the way he looks at the bounty hunter make Tardif’s shaft twitch in his hand. Then he lowers himself, taking in Tardif in one swift motion despite the size, and proceeds to ride the bounty hunter to a point where Tardif is nearly senseless, lost to the ridiculous amounts of pleasure only Damian can give him.

* * *

 

The bounty hunter gets a job in the city that same evening, and finishes the job the following day, after successfully tracking down the victim and cut their throat open.

When he returns to Damian’s house, he finds the door sign at «closed», and so he retreats to a lonely corner and waits.

Some time later, two men leave, and when they’re out of sight, Tardif makes his way to the door, frowning; two clients at once, isn’t it a bit too much?

Damian takes a while to open the door again to change the sign, and when he does show up, the bounty hunter can’t believe his eyes:  

“What happened to your face??” he asks in a hiss.

Damian’s face is heavily bruised, to the point that he can’t almost open his right eye. His nose is bleeding, and so is his split lower lip. Damian takes in a deep breath and doesn’t change the sign, just steps aside to let Tardif in:

“Hm… you… you were not supposed to see me like this…” he mutters. He’s wearing only breeches, and Tardif can’t help a growl as he spots the severe bruising all over Damian’s muscled body.

Until the moment, he has only occasionally seen faint bruises, hasn’t even paid much attention to them. But this? This makes the bounty hunter think about something he had never thought before: in his profession Damian is vulnerable, by society’s law he has no right to defend himself… he can be mistreated by anyone… can be killed.

Damian lowers his head as he passes by Tardif and goes upstairs. He moves slowly, like he is sore, and Tardif trots after him, pulling the helmet off his head furiously:

“Why did they do this do you?” he growls. Damian shrugs:

“Because they can,” he replies, his voice flat. Tardif knows this has happened before, many times, and for a moment he is speechless, and at a loss of what to do he follows Damian to the bed and sits beside him. He notices the mattress is exposed:

“The sheets?” Tardif asks, and Damian hugs himself and looks down:

“You know I have to wash the sheets once in a while, right?” he grunts, and something about his voice isn’t right. Damian starts to look around nervously, avoiding looking at Tardif at all costs. There is blood on the sheets, and having the bounty hunter seeing him like this is enough humiliation:

“Who are those men?” Tardif insists, and Damian shuts his eyes closed:

“Can’t you just drop it?” he hisses, but it’s too late, the bounty hunter has noticed the faint shaking of his voice.

Tardif won’t drop it. Won’t mention it, but won’t drop it. He undresses his armour and embraces Damian.

Damian, despite being a prostitute, is proud; he resists, doesn’t want the bounty hunter to embrace him, stubbornly looks away. But he ends up quitting, and burrows his face on the crook of Tardif’s neck and allows himself to cry.

At least, this time he doesn’t have to cry alone…

They end up huddled together, Tardif sitting with his back straight against the headboard and Damian sitting and leaning on his chest between his spread legs. Time goes by and they don’t talk. Only when Damian stops crying and Tardif gets a wet cloth to clean the dried blood off his face, do they speak again:

“When are your next appointments?” the bounty hunter asks, cleaning the blood. He then sets the cloth aside and feels Damian’s nose with the tips of his fingers, but the bone isn’t broken. Still, the other man flinches involuntarily:

“Tomorrow.”

“Cancel them.”

“No.” And he ads quickly, because Tardif widens his eyes and opens his mouth to yell some sense at him. “I can’t… I have rent to pay…”

The bounty hunter just rolls his eyes:

“I’ll give you the money.”

“No, I don’t want your money!” Damian snarls and stands up. He starts to pace around, angrily, apparently forgotten about how sore he is. “I can take care of myself!”

Tardif bites his tongue, opts for saying nothing. He’s tired and doesn’t want to argue… and Damian has had enough, an argument with someone he trusts fully is the last thing he needs.

That night the bounty hunter has trouble falling asleep. In the dimness, he looks at Damian, cuddled up on him, and can’t stop his mind from producing all kinds of scenarios in which he comes to see that man and finds him dead in this same bed. And that is making him nervous, and nauseous, because he cares for Damian, and would like to keep him safe.

Then he remembers… He shifts slightly, carefully, and reaches out for a stool next to the bed. Damian is fast asleep, doesn’t notice the small movements. Tardif gropes a bit, until his fingers find a leather-clad journal: that’s where Damian writes down his schedules and appointments, as well as the names of his clients. Tardif brings the journal closer and, still very careful not to wake up Damian, searches the several entries.

And he finds what he is looking for.

* * *

 

The next day, when they sit together to have dinner, Damian casts Tardif an interrogative glance:

“You seem… very pleased,” he comments. Tardif just shruggs:

“I had a good day,” he replies. Finding the men who had mistreated Damian had been a piece of cake, and torturing them to death, in an abandoned warehouse by the docks, had been eerily satisficing.

Damian smirks but says nothing else. When they finish dinner, Damian stands from his stool and straddles the bounty hunter, who shakes his head:

“No, you’re not recovered yet…” he says, and to prove his point thumbs Damian’s bruised cheek:

“I was just going to make your day better…” Damian excuses, flirty, like the mistreatment from the previous day had never happened, nor the busy day he had. Tardif chuckles:

“A massage would be just fine.”

They move to the bed, Tardif lies flat on his stomach and Damian kneels beside him and starts to work on Tardif’s muscled shoulders and back. They are silent, excepting for the pleasured moans escaping the bounty hunter’s lips:

“I don’t do massages…” Damian says quietly after a while:

“Pretty skill’d f’somenthin’ you don’t…” Tardif slurs, eyes closed, practically melting on the bed. But what Damian is trying to say still reaches his brain, and he forces himself to be a bit more coherent. “I like to be your exception.”

“You’re my exception in a lot of things,” Damian says again and frowns upon finding a particularly hard knot right under Tardif’s shoulder. The bounty hunter squirms and moans when he starts working on its destruction:

“Elaborate. I like…” He laughs, because it feels so good. “I like to be… uh… I like my qualities to… uh… you get it, Damian…” He keeps laughing and moaning and the Light please bless Damian and all his skills…

Damian chuckles, but finishes the knot before voicing his thoughts – thoughts that he shouldn’t have, nor share, because of what he is and the nature of his relationship with the bounty hunter. He slides his hands down, to Tardif’s lower back, and he can’t resist to scratch at his sides, where he knows the bounty hunter is ticklish:

“I can talk to you,” he starts, and his voice is so quiet and serious it makes Tardif frown. “And you make me laugh, and you arouse me, and you let me have pleasure… You care.”

The bounty hunter turns around slowly and pats the empty space beside him on the mattress, looking at Damian, at those piercing blue eyes of his, and knows whatever wild and dangerous thing lurks from Damian’s eyes is submissive and harmless to him. He wonders how many others get that look, and by the way the other man smiles at him he knows the answer is: he is the only one:

“Of course I care, Damian…” he replies, and his voice his hoarse and there is already an unrequited bulge in his breeches. “You… you do to me all the things you said… how could I not care?”

He realizes a bit too late they are walking on thin ice. For their sake, they should not be talking about that. Damian seems to read his thoughts, or he remembers he is a prostitute and emotional connection with his clients is something he must avoid. He offers Tardif a seductive smile and scratches his abdomen playfully:

“Let me help you…” he asks with a hint of begging and licks his lips, suggestively. But Tardif just shakes his head:

“Your lip is split, it must hurt,” He pats the empty space beside him again. Damian just sighs and complies, lies down next to him and rest his head on Tardif’s chest.

* * *

 

Each time the bounty hunter has to leave, he finds it more difficult. Especially this time, that he has seen what some clients are capable of.

And Damian can’t help but feel empty and wish that Tardif will return quickly.

His mind is somewhere else when he is working, something that doesn’t happen when he is with Tardif: then is mind is there, and he is well aware of Tardif’s big and muscled body, so perfect; is well aware of the few scars the bounty hunter has and that he already knows by heart; is well aware of how Tardif looks at him, so differently from the looks he gets from his other clients; is well aware of Tardif’s moans and pants; and the bounty hunter arouses him, something that doesn’t happen with his clients, and Damian cannot explain why Tardif has such power over him. But he adores that power, adores to feel Tardif in control, doing whatever he wants, but always so thoughtful about Damian’s own needs. He adores that he can trust and flirt and play, that Tardif lets him do that, and that he will trust and flirt and play along with Damian. He adores that Tardif allows him to bite and suck at his neck and bruise him, and that Tardif allows him to explore his body, and that Tardif does the exact same thing to him. He is delighted that he can brand Tardif his own, with hickeys and scratches, and that Tardif does that to him as well; it gives him a much needed sense of belonging.

But still Damian is scared that Tardif comes around just for chatting, just to lie down next to him and cuddle up, and that sometimes the sex is slow and gentle. Because he likes all of that, way too much, and having the profession he has he cannot.

* * *

 

Weeks go by and one night, shortly after Damian attends his last appointment, he is upstairs lying on the bed and hears someone knocking at the door. He sighs, stands ups and makes his way downstairs, considering that he should have left the sign as «closed» and enjoy a night of peaceful sleep.

Damian opens the door and sees Tardif, armor-clad and with the helmet covering his face. He smiles and steps aside, and the bounty hunter comes in:

“That was quick!” he comments cheerfully, closes the door and turns around to look at Tardif… and notices he’s pressing a hand over his bleeding side. His smile dies and he widens his eyes. “You’re wounded.”

“Hmph. Blood's merely an expense in my line of work,” he says and allows Damian to guide him upstairs.

There is no flirtation or playfulness as Damian undresses Tardif from his armor. He is clearly concerned, and the bounty hunter feels bad for appreciating the other man’s concern.

Damian cleans the wound and bandages it, and they lie together in bed. They are silent, and Tardif allows Damian to spoon him and relishes the feeling of closeness and intimacy with the other man, that he has missed more than he wants to admit. He closes his eyes; he is tired, and until not so long ago had been scared. But he knows that, with time, being wounded on work won’t scare him anymore:

“What happened?” Damian asks softly, breathing against Tardif’s neck. It feels good and warmth churns inside him:

“I wasn’t expecting a body-guard…” Tardif explains. “I’ll be more careful the next time.”

“I hope so…” Damian sighs and shuts his eyes closed for moments. He knows Tardif puts himself at risk… and he does not want that. Now that he has seen how the bounty hunter gets scars, he is afraid one day Tardif will leave… and never come back. The thought of Tardif dying somewhere, painfully and alone, is nauseating.

“What about you?” the bounty hunter asks, interrupting his thoughts. “Has someone… mistreated you, again?”

“No…” Damian rests his forehead against the back of Tardif’s neck. “And… I never saw those two again… which is odd, because they work at the market, but now every time I go shopping they’re never there.”

“Maybe they moved…” Tardif says innocently and can’t help a smile.

Damian just sighs, spends some more time resting his forehead on the back of Tardif’s neck, then does something he swore he would never do: kiss a client. But Tardif isn’t just a client, is he? He is a friend, even if they don’t call it like that.

Tardif widens his eyes in shock as he feels Damian’s lips press against his skin - the gesture is not for branding him. It feels like the other man is burning him, and the heat spreads from that small spot of skin to his entire body, rising every hair in his body, setting his heart into a furious race and causing his breath to get caught in his throat.

And Damian does not want to break the kiss, but he eventually moves his head away and gives a tight squeeze to the warm body in his arms.

The bounty hunter considers turning around, face Damian and ask him to kiss him on the lips. It must feel wonderful! However, Tardif reconsiders: it’s too much, he cannot afford that. Kissing Damian like that would trap him forever with the other man, more than what he already is, and he wouldn’t allow anyone else close to Damian ever again. And he cannot do that, because they are both adults, and they both live the lives they chose – or were forced to choose.

He's scared, realizing he doesn’t have the courage to ask Damian to come with him, and so prefers to dwell on logical excuses.

Tardif leaves the following day and takes nearly two months to return.

* * *

 

In the meantime, Damian returns to his routine of clients and solitude.

One day, while coming back from groceries shopping in the market, Damian spots a small crowd gathered in a square and decides to take a look. In the middle of the crowd, there is a priest dressed in black, with a hood pulled over his head. He gesticulates angrily with a hand, while the other holds a thick leather-clad Bible.

Damian is about to roll his eyes in annoyance and keep going, he has an appointment that noon. People of religion have little consideration for men like him, so he is kind enough to retribute. However, something about the priest’s speech catches his attention.

Something about redemption and the salvation of the soul, of a better life on earth and after death.

Damian decides to listen, just out of curiosity. He had been told, years ago, that he had doomed himself and there was no way back. And he had conformed to that thought, and didn’t even think about it anymore.

But now that priest speaks about self-sacrifice and the cleansing of the soul, of redemption and forgiveness.

And Damian spends the rest of the day thinking about those words, and the day after, and the day after.

Because he is tired. Tired of being everyone’s. Tired of having to submit to all kinds of men. Tired of selling himself for a roof and food. It has been years, too many years, and his memory has done him the favour of erasing itself, letting him forget about how a stray child allowed, for the first time, a man to use his body in exchange for food, and how Damian had been trapped in that vicious cycle ever since.

* * *

 

Tardif is received very enthusiastically and, while he pounds into Damian and their moans and gasps fill the room, he almost forgets that kiss happened, threatening to make him say things that could not be said.

But when they lie down together, on their sides and facing each other, the bounty hunter notices how exhausted Damian looks, and he frowns:

“Is everything alright?” he asks quietly. Damian offers him a smirk, but shakes his head:

“I feel… tired, Tardif…” he says. “I think… I think I should stop this.”

Tardif is listening, attentively, and is convinced that the beating of his heart is perfectly audible:

“What makes you think that?” he asks, a bit too bluntly, but Damian doesn’t seem to notice:

“There was this priest, a couple of months ago… he was talking about redemption and salvation of the soul-“ Damian stops abruptly as Tardif burst out laughing:

“Liars, is what they are!” the bounty hunter exclaims, laughing. “Damian, they despise you… How could you even waste time listening? I didn’t think you a religious man!”

Damian looks down, clenches his jaw:

“And I’m not…” he grumbles. “But… I want a better life,” He looks up at Tardif again, and the bounty hunter sees that wild and dangerous – very dangerous – thing lurking from Damian’s blue eyes. “I thought… I thought you’d like to listen, since you seemed so concerned when you saw me bruised…”

The bounty hunter is silent. Damian has never spoken to him with… resentment. He shakes his head:

“It’s not that…” he explains softly. “If you want to change your life… I’m glad for you, and I’ll help you if you need. I just thought it curious… the priest…”

“But then, what would I do…?” Damian frowns. “I… I don’t know how to do anything else… I… I didn’t even finish school… Do you think I can become a priest?”

Tardif doesn’t want to, but he can’t help the fit of laughter that comes with the thought of _Damian_ being a priest. He knows he is hurting Damian, he knows Damian is seeking advice and he is giving none, but still he laughs. And at the same time, he is terrified; if Damian leaves that way of living… how are they going to meet? Would Damian want to come with him? Does he have the courage to ask him?

The bounty hunter does his best to stop laughing and takes Damian’s hands between his, desperately trying to appease the other man’s disbelief and anger:

“My sister owns a bakery, back home…” he tells, and if Damian accepts to go with him… then Tardif is trapped, forever, and he won’t bring himself to ever leave Damian’s side again. Not with him so close, not with the chance of seeing him everyday, having a normal life with him. “You… you would make a fine baker, maybe.”

Damian widens his eyes and freezes. For a second, he’s afraid he misheard the bounty hunter and that it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, making him hear the things he wants, but that he cannot have. But as the silence stretches, Damian understands he heard clearly, and he feels color drain from his face:

“Your sister?” He didn’t know Tardif has a sister. And if he has a sister, he has parents, maybe brothers, maybe nephews… maybe even a wife…? He wouldn’t be the first family man to show up at his door. This thought angers and hurts Damian, because they tell each other so many things… so why couldn’t Tardif have told him about his family earlier?

“Yes… I have a sister… She’s older, she… inherited the bakery, my parents are getting too old… and I got myself into something else…” the bounty hunter explains shortly and squeezes Damian’s hands. “I… my sister and I, we get along… she’d take you in, she could use some help to carry those flour sacks…”

Damian is stunned. There are a million questions in his mind, questions to which he isn’t sure he wants an answer. And if he does go with Tardif… how will they meet? How often will they see each other? Tardif’s sister would certainly ask about him, she would want to know where on earth Tardif found Damian… and his parents would want to know as well, and maybe Tardif has friends, and they too would want to know… And if they find out, what will they think of the bounty hunter?

“I can’t!” Damian blurts out, and he can’t stop himself before the words rush out of his mouth.

And the bounty hunter looks at him like he has been slapped in the face with a wet towel:

“Why??”

“What would your family say? And if they find out about me? What would they think of you?” Damian pulls his hands away and pushes himself to a sitting position. Tardif mimics him:

“My parents and my sister wouldn’t dare to nose around!” he exclaims, and the fact that Damian is putting up resistance is quite frustrating. “I thought you wanted a better life, I’m offering you a chance!”

Bad choice of words.

Damian frowns, and Tardif becomes well aware of the wild and dangerous thing that lurks from Damian’s cold blue eyes:

“I do not need your charity.”

“The church’s is better, I presume?”

And from there, everything spirals out of control and they yell and accuse each other of not understanding, of not caring. Damian is hurt about Tardif not understanding his reasons, about him failing to see that Damian is only trying to protect him, about Tardif openly mocking him for his change of heart regarding the church. Tardif is hurt about Damian not understanding his intentions, about Damian shattering his hope that they could be together.

Tardif lights the match in the powder barrel by completely losing control and yelling at Damian that he is too picky for a prostitute and too stupid to ever become something else. And the moment the words are out, Tardif dresses his armor hurriedly and leaves, not daring to look back at Damian’s teary eyes.

The bounty hunter swears on his life that he is never looking for Damian again. He convinces himself he hasn’t liked Damian’s attitude, but he is just too young to understand a broken heart.

And Damian swears on his life that he will never look for Tardif, no matter what happens. But unlike the bounty hunter, Damian is mature enough to understand the cause of his grief is delusion and a broken heart.

* * *

 

A decade and a few more years later and Tardif is sitting at a tavern looking quietly at his empty pint. On the floor above him, someone is having fun in the brothel. All around him, adventurers chat animatedly. In a lonely corner, the jester is trying to make his music be heard above the fuss.

Tardif sighs and leaves, goes outside.

The night is cold and the estate is permanently shrouded in mist. The soft sounds of conversations are still audible outside, and Tardif decides to wander a bit in the Hamlet.

He is tired, but still forces his mind to work, to think about his strategies and how to improve them. He is slowly adapting to his targets: monsters, not simply men, and the fear the creatures cause him and their supernatural powers are more impacting than what Tardif wants to admit.

At some point, the crusader comes up to him and tells him the two of them, the houndmaster and a new-arrived are leaving to the Warrens in the morning.

Tardif isn’t pleased to have a new-arrived in the team; he doesn’t even like team-work, but the months he has spent in the estate have shown him the crusader and the houndmaster, along with a few others, are reliable fighters. Now a new-arrived? Too many chances of Tardif getting double-crossed. That new-arrived isn’t staying behind Tardif, no way: they’ll go first, where the bounty hunter can monitor them, and based on how they do on the Warrens, then Tardif will consider about having them behind him the next time.

* * *

 

The meeting point for the party is the statue at the central square. From there, they go to the mansion, have a last briefing with the Heiress and then go on the mission.

Tardif didn’t see a new face in the barracks the night before, and now, that he makes his way to the statue, he feels indeed curious about that new-arrived. The bounty hunter is usually the first to get to the meeting point, after swallowing down a poor excuse of breakfast. Little socialization has the advantage of allowing him to do things faster.

However, there is already someone near the statue, and Tardif snickers; it’s a flagellant, one of those extremists from the church, more concerned about beating themselves than anything else.

But as Tardif approaches the new-arrived, he realizes that this is one big flagellant, tall and broad and muscular. His heavily scarred body exhibits fresh wounds. The man wears a bloodied hood and a spiked collar, and his muscular arms are wrapped in spiked armwraps. Tardif doubts the manskirt the flagellant is wearing is effective against the cold, but the flagellant seems unaffected by it.

All things considered, the flagellant is a stunning sight. Especially now, that Tardif has spotted the flail the man is holding in a hand.

The flagellant turns his hooded head to look at him, and the only exposed bit of his face is his lower face. He has a strong chin and lips so thin, pressed in a bitter line.

Tardif stops next to him, thumbs hooked on his belt. He is taller than the flagellant and looks down at him, his head tilted:

“What brings you here, fool?” Tardif asks curiously.

And something changes in the flagellant, because he recognises that voice. It’s gruffer than the last time he heard it, but it’s pretty much still the same. It stirs things he had taken too long to tame, and he is torn between feeling happy or mortified. Tardif, after all these years…

Damian tenses up; Tardif probably doesn’t even remember him anymore… doesn’t remember _them_ , and now Damian cannot think about it.

He looks at the bounty hunter’s face with a sharp motion and clenches his jaw. His grip on the flail tightens. But then he stretches his lips in a grin, and it’s wild and dangerous and sends an unpleasant shiver down Tardif’s spine:

“Redemption,” he replies, and Tardif has the feeling someone has emptied a bucket of ice on him. He knows that voice. Would recognize it anywhere; it’s deeper than the last time he heard it, but it’s still the same. “And you? Money, I presume.”

Damian’s voice is oddly conversional, and it scares Tardif for some reason. Memories of a decade ago fill his mind, memories of yelling and saying bad things, but also memories of laughing and smiling and feeling good. And he realizes it has been _years_ since he last laughed for real, since he last felt genuinely good.

He wants to say something, but he can’t. Words don’t come, and the rest of the party is already approaching.

* * *

 

The flagellant is berserk, wrathful and a terrifying sight for both friends and foes.

Tardif has been right; given the chance, Damian would do no good to whoever stood on his way. And the bounty hunter knows that whatever wild and dangerous thing that lurked from Damian’s eyes in now on full display. But he can’t see it… Damian never lowers his hood, and when they camp, Damian stands aside, whipping himself and praying, and the first time Tardif sees it he feels sick and needs to walk way for a moment.

Would Damian ever stop abusing his body?

They do well in the Warrens and come back safely. Upon returning to the Hamlet, the houndmaster goes to the tavern, the crusader and the flagellant head to the abbey… and Tardif is left alone in the middle of the street, feeling lost.

He wants to talk to Damian. It has been… _years_. In this place, where everything is a threat and Tardif is surrounded of people he can’t bring himself to trust fully… having Damian there is both a blessing and a curse. He wants to talk to him, needs to talk to him. He feels younger again, arrived to the big city, and the only safe place for him to stay in is with Damian.

Tardif waits for a couple of days; another party is sent to the dungeons, the tavern gets emptier again, no one wants to spar with him in the guild. He doesn’t see Damian around.

Finally, at the end of the second day, Tardif musters enough courage to make his way to the abbey, where he has never been before.

The building is decrepit, built in dark stone, and when he walks into it finds none of the comfort he hears the crusader, the vestal and the leper talk about. For the bounty hunter, it feels cold, and austere, and definitely a place he wouldn’t like to linger on.

The flagellant is there, kneeled in front of the altar. Fortunately, he’s not whipping himself, and seems lost in thoughts or praying. But, as Tardif approaches, he can see more wounds on Damian’s back, and that sends a shiver down his spine.

When the bounty hunter reaches a fallen column, he sits on it and clears his throat, startling the flagellant. Damian jumps to his feet and turns around, flail in hand ready to strike:

“It’s just me,” Tardif announces from his spot.

Damian frowns under his hood, slowly puts down the flail and turns his back at the bounty hunter again:

“I didn’t hear you,” he says:

“No one does,” Tardif replies.

Silence, and Damian seems to have lost himself in thoughts or praying again. It’s up to Tardif now, and the bounty hunter looks down at his boots:

“So… how are you?” he asks, realizing too late how stupid he sounds.

Damian sighs, annoyed, and glances over his shoulder:

“I’m trying to pray, and you?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

Much for Tardif’s surprise, Damian laughs. But his laughter is cold and empty, and the bounty hunter is sure that whatever happened to him in the many years that kept them apart, it wasn’t good:

“I thought you had already said everything,” Damian says, and he stands up again, picks up his flail and walks to Tardif. And where once was seductiveness and a desire to please, now stood disagreeableness and a desire to destroy. Damian’s body, once beautiful and flawless, solely for the purpose of giving pleasure, was now bulkier and scarred, solely for the purpose of being destroyed.

Damian stops in front of the bounty hunter and looks down at him:

“People do not talk to flagellants,” he explains sharply, and Tardif stands up from his seat, slightly intimidated:

“Why?”

“Because we are holy men,” Damian shrugs. “Because we are anonymous, and therefore cannot have someone to talk to. We are no one, and yet we are holy.”

Tardif shakes his head, slowly, in pure disbelief:

“You are not anonymous to me. You never were!” he hisses, and Damian steps back like he has been punched:

“I don’t think so,” he growls and points the door of the abbey, at the far end of the corridor, with the same hand he holds his flail. “Leave me alone, or suffer the consequences.”

The bounty hunter has no wish to fight him again and leaves.

Alone, Damian falls to his knees and hides his face on his hands. He wants to take Tardif’s helmet off and see his face, the only familiar face to him in that dreadful place. He wants to see his old friend, talk to him… even if the way they parted was everything but friendly.

The flagellant takes in a deep, calming breath; he can’t. Along with longing and hurt, Tardif brings him shame. Shame of his past self, of what he did with his body. And Damian doesn’t want to see it all again.

* * *

 

Damian has forgotten how persistent and plainly stubborn Tardif can be. The bounty hunter nags him to the brink of insanity to catch up, not leaving him alone to pray, to whip himself, to be alone with his thoughts. Tardif is always there, stepping out of the shadows when Damian least expects, and not even threats of physical violence and excommunation make Tardif back off.

One day, Damian is so fed up he throws his flail on the ground and yells at Tardif that yes, they can talk.

And so they sit on the abbey steps, because the crusader has expulsed them from the inside of the abbey for being noisy:

“You are already blemishing my reputation!” Damian growls angrily, pointing an accusatory finger at Tardif:

“Reynauld is a kleptomaniac, you can always throw that at him…” Tardif shares, and watches as Damian grows silent, like he is actually considering doing it. That makes him smile, it stirs something that has been frozen for a long time.

Tardif starts with casual talk. Damian is evasive, gives him short answers and seems more interested in his flail than in the bounty hunter. And Tardif realizes he must break ice again, but this time the walls are much thicker.

* * *

 

“You seem to know the flagellant,” the vestal comments later, at dinner in the tavern, because Tardif’s brilliant plan of nagging Damian into talking to him was everything but discreet. The bounty hunter shrugs:

“We were friends, once…” Tardif replies. “Before your blasted Light took him…” he adds with resentment, but realizes his accusation is empty: he can see it now, after all those years. Can see what Damian was trying to do when refusing to go with him. And he feels ashamed and stupid, and if against all odds they have met again in this cursed estate, then Tardif is going to do his best to win back Damian’s trust.

It is all he wants; someone to talk to.

The vestal nods, slowly, then starts to walk to another table:

“I’m sorry you lost your friend…” And by the way she says it, Tardif has the feeling the vestal means that Damian is lost forever.

But the bounty hunter is stubborn.

* * *

 

Some days later, Damian and Tardif go in the same expedition.

This one takes more time, is more stressful: the enemies, the darkness, the party becomes abusive to one another, the flagellant’s constant whipping of himself gets on everyone’s nerves.

When they are returning, Tardif is wounded. It’s just a scratch, but bleeds impressively. Yet Tardif has gotten many injuries like that in the course of years, and he can’t bring himself to care.

When they are back to the Hamlet, he intends to go to the tavern, drink a couple of pints to numb the stinging from his wound; it has always worked.

“You should treat that,” Damian says from behind, and Tardif stops in his tracks.

The flagellant just stands there, looking at him:

“The cheek of you. You don’t treat yours, I’ve been watching!” Tardif replies.

“As you wish,” Damian grunts, and Tardif doesn’t want to, but it reminds him of all the times Damian said that exact same thing, seductively, and went on doing wonderful things to him.

His blood runs south, in a way that hasn’t happened in years, and Tardif realizes for the first time he hasn’t been with _anyone_ for _anything_ ; his life is travelling the country and killing, collect his payment and spend it in drinks, better weapons and better horses. He realizes he is starved for contact, but he is not allowing anyone in that cursed estate to lay their hands on him.

Except… except for Damian, who is already walking away to the abbey:

“Treat me!” Tardif requests and trots after the flagellant.

The flagellant stops, visibly indignant, and his mouth is already open to yell at Tardif and send him away. But the bounty hunter shakes his head:

“As a holy person, it is your duty to tend to those in need!” he exclaims, and Damian’s mouth forms a perfect, even more indignant «o». Tardif smiles, delighted. “The vestal is always saying that.”

Damian clenches his jaw, furious. He can argue that he is a different kind of holy person – his tending to those in need is of other nature, through martyrdom.

Yet… he complies, and follows Tardif to the barracks. It has always been difficult to say no to the bounty hunter…

Tardif undresses his armor – but his helmet remains - and rolls up the sleeve of his tunic, exposing a gash across his forearm. He sits on his cot, hands Damian his medical supplies and the flagellant kneels next to him and tends to his wound.

They are silent and feel awkward, and Tardif knows this is his chance to do something good. He is a man of tactics and strategy now, and he has seen his past mistake and doesn’t want to follow through with it:

“I am sorry,” he mutters, looking at Damian. The flagellant raises his hooded head:

“I beg your pardon?”

“Exactly,” But Damian just tilts his head, confused. “Damian, the way we parted… I’m sorry.”

Damian clenches his jaw, but instead of annoyance, he gives off bitterness:

“Well… now it’s done.”

“I was hurt, I didn’t understand… you were trying to protect me…”

The flagellant exhales, slowly, and he slouches his shoulders. He’s tired. And still hurt, after all those years. Tardif’s cruel words still haunt him, the despise on his face, and it pains him more than anything else he has been through – brute clients, his flail, society:

“We can’t go back to what we were,” Damian states, and he feels so tired, and he hurriedly finishes tending to Tardif’s wound:

“I know, and I don’t want to,” the bounty hunter agrees and Damian looks at him in confusion again. “You are a holy man, now. Going back would be… dishonourable, in the least…?” Tardif frowns, thinks of a more appropriate thing to say. “I’m… I’m glad you’re safe, now.”

The flagellant sighs and leaves, his head low; Tardif’s words touch him more than he wants to admit and the bounty hunter has, at least, cracked the ice.

* * *

 

The bounty hunter and the flagellant are supposed to go to the dungeons again, but Damian refuses to go in the same party as the abomination.

And, staying behind, in the abbey, gives Damian time to think.

He is a flagellant, now. A holy man. He has only one mission, which is to suffer, and that burden cannot be shared.  And he has sinned so much in the past, that he has convinced himself his only way to completely cleanse his soul is to be here, in the estate, and fight for the Light.

Yet now Tardif is here as well, and no matter how hurt Damian is or his current position… he wants to spend time with him. Just… just talking. They used to talk so much… And Damian wouldn’t even talk about his burden, wouldn’t even talk about the past. That would cause no offense, right?

Just chatting, about the weather, about the dungeons… trivialities. He can’t bring himself to trust Tardif again, not like he once did.

But… they could talk.

* * *

 

Some days go by, and when Damian isn’t in the abbey, he wanders about the Hamlet a bit, exploring. The flagellant learns immediately the places to avoid: the tavern, a den of vice with a den of sin right on the floor above; the sanitarium, where a caretaker tried to persuade him to come in and tend to his wounds; the outskirts, where the abomination wanders.

But Damian likes to visit the blacksmith’s workshop and watch him fabricate weapons, and maybe one of these days he’ll ask the blacksmith to improve his flail. And he likes to go to the guild and land a few blows on the training dummies.

That morning, when Damian goes to the guild, he finds Tardif is already there, seemingly having returned in the night.

But something is off about the bounty hunter, about the frenetic way he lands blow after blow on the training dummies, about the way he growls and grunts and snarls. He might be just feeling particularly violent, but Damian knows him, knows something isn’t right. The flagellant considers turning around and leave, but he finds he can’t, his legs won’t move, and he can’t look away from the bounty hunter’s hulking figure fight with a dummy like it is a real, life-threatening fight:

“Tardif?” Damian calls quietly and watches as the bounty hunter stops maiming the dummies and turns around to face him, slowly, the cloth covering the lower half of his face giving out how quickly and raggedly he was breathing:

“Spar with me,” the bounty hunter commands. He’s on edge and just wants to hit something, have a good fight with someone and relief all that stress, take that weight off his muscles.

And if there is someone who can take him, that is Damian.

Yet the flagellant frowns and crosses his arms in front of his chest:

“Perhaps you should visit the abbey… calm down…?” he suggests, and Tardif chuckles darkly:

“Please… Tend to those in need, like holy people do!”

Damian rolls his eyes, but accepts:

“I am not to be held responsible if something happens to you…” he grunts.

They fight. It starts as a mere stand up grappling, but things escalate quickly. Suddenly Tardif isn’t just relieving stress from the expedition, and Damian isn’t simply taking blows for the bounty hunter’s sake. They pour out years of grief, of frustration and of abandonment, and soon enough they’re snarling at each other and they’re grappling on the ground, trying to hurt each other and gain the upper hand, and they become bruised and bleed – Tardif’s armour can’t save him from the flagellant’s wrath. A hood falls and a helmet rolls away from the impact of a head hitting the ground. Tears pool on their eyes, making them blind, and they land blow after blow on whatever they lay their hands on.

It’s a matter of minutes until Tardif finally holds Damian in a hammerlock. Damian yelps and tries to struggle and wriggle away, but he’s well secured and Tardif pins him down on the ground with his massive body.

Slowly, they stop fighting. Too tired. They pant loudly, and Tardif lets go of Damian’s arm and collapses on his back, drenched in sweat. Damian doesn’t move, simply lies there facing Tardif and tries to calm down his breathing.

Then the flagellant grins tiredly:

“Still rough, I see…” he mutters and looks at Tardif’s exposed face, to find him looking at him.

They look like they used to, with a few exceptions: Damian’s blond hair is shorter and there are already grey hairs on Tardif’s hairline and among his stubble; Damian’s thin lips are even thinner, pressed in a bitter line, while Tardif’s are still fleshy; they both have huge, dark rings under their eyes and on both of them the crow’s feet are starting to appear. Their faces are bruised, and bloodied, and sweaty, and tears run down their faces.

Tardif feels a crushing weight on his chest upon looking into Damian’s blue eyes; whatever was wild and dangerous is momently gone, and all he can see is the most profound grief. Carefully, he raises a hand, pulls off the glove and stretches his hand towards Damian’s face to thumb away his tears.

But the flagellant jumps to his feet and makes a daring attempt to escape. Yet he isn’t fast enough; Tardif rolls to where he left his weapons and swings his grappling hook at the flagellant, with enough precision so that the hook wraps the rope around Damian’s legs but doesn’t hit him.

Damian falls with a yelp, and still tries to drag himself away. But the bounty hunter strides to him, wraps his arms around Damian’s torso and pulls him up, ignoring Damian’s roars about excommunation and eternal damnation of his already damned soul. Even because Damian’s voice his breaking, and when he’s standing and finally stops struggling, he burrows his face on Tardif’s chest and sobs. The ice is broken.

And all Tardif can do is resting his chin on top of Damian’s head and sob as well, uttering apologies. They spend some time like that, in each other’s arms, and it feels like it has always felt, comforting and invigorating:

“What happened to you?” Tardif mutters quietly. Damian tenses up and puts some distance between them, the rope around his legs loose, and the bounty hunter thinks it’s better not to force the flagellant.

Damian wipes his tears and pulls the hood over his head again:

“Suffering is a burden that cannot be shared,” he grunts and takes in a deep breath. Tardif nods:

“I won’t ask you about your life, then…” he promises, and crosses his arms. “But you can’t stop me from wanting to talk to you. I want my friend back.”

The flagellant smiles with no joy and shrugs, looking up at Tardif. Tardif’s hazel eyes are reddened and puffy and look almost completely green. He has beautiful eyes, he has always been a gorgeous man. Damian crosses his arms to fight the impulse of stretching his hands and run his fingers through the bounty hunter’s dark auburn hair. Standing here, with the two of them crying, his resolution about not trusting Tardif again is shattering all too quickly for his liking, and he is scared of the sheer power the bounty hunter still has over him:

“You never called me ‘friend’…” Damian mumbles and looks down, shifting his weight from one leg to the other:

“I didn’t… I didn’t realize…” Tardif looks away and wipes his tears as well. He can’t remember the last time he cried, or why – it has been years, but he is pretty sure that man standing in front of him was the reason. “I… You make me feel things, Damian. That is dangerous, in my profession.”

The flagellant laughs, but his laughter is empty and cold:

“And so it was in my old profession, and so it is now.”

And he leaves towards the abbey in urgent need to pray, and whip himself, and think.

* * *

 

Tardif leaves Damian alone for the rest of the day. He goes to the barracks and, after undressing his armour, can’t help but feel a strange fondness for the bruises adorning his body. Indeed, Damian has always been at his level…

The next day he goes to the abbey. Damian is there, and among the bruises there are fresh wounds made by his flail. Tardif keeps in mind not to talk about it – he can always learn from the vestal – and he sits on the fallen column near the altar:

“I didn’t know you could fight,” he says and startles Damian, who didn’t hear him coming. No one ever does. The flagellant hesitates for a moment, then decides to sit beside Tardif, keeping some distance between them:

“I learned… Comes in handy…” He pauses, bites his lower lip softly, then proceeds. “I’ve travelled the country…”

“You saw the mountains? With snow?” Tardif smiles, though he’s wearing his helmet. Damian smiles as well, his first genuine smile in years and nods:

“It’s beautiful.”

And from there they talk about the roads they travelled, the villages and cities they went to. And Damian feels comfortable, like only Tardif can make him feel.

* * *

 

Tardif nags the vestal to the point that she gives him an intensive course about flagellants. The bounty hunter can’t help but congratulate himself for his genius: now he can understand Damian, and hasn’t upset him for asking him directly.

The bounty hunter gives the flagellant space, meeting him in the abbey by nightfall – and by now, Damian is already waiting for Tardif. When they go on mission together, and when they set camp, Tardif lets Damian distance himself, doesn’t even comment.

Months go by and Tardif manages to convince Damian to let him wash his wounds – just wash them with water, and the flagellant lets him. The adventurers in the Hamlet notice that the bounty hunter and the flagellant seem to be friends, but make no comment, no judgment, and that lifts a massive weight from Damian’s heart.

Damian feels comfortable around Tardif, again. He has missed this thing he had with the bounty hunter, has missed this man. And when he is alone whipping himself, he thinks that it is fine to have Tardif around, that it will do no harm or offend the Light, because Damian has suffered so much, and he always punishes himself regularly to cleanse his soul… there is no harm.

Now they sit closer to each other, and Damian’s hood is pulled down and Tardif doesn’t wear his helmet. They look at each other with a toxic mixture of fondness and sadness, and it happens with frequency that they start talking about the old days, and that brings to the surface too many feelings and emotions and lust and wanting that Damian cannot afford now. And that scares him.

But Tardif doesn’t push him, seems genuinely happy for just sitting there, talking about everything and nothing, just like… just like when he used to show up, just to chat and stay with Damian.  And Tardif is indeed genuinely happy for just staying there. He wants to touch Damian more often, he craves his contact and affection, but he keeps in mind what the vestal told him, and he is not making the same mistake again of driving Damian away from him.

However, as months drag after each other, it becomes more difficult for the bounty hunter to control himself. He sits even closer, sometimes wraps an arm around Damian’s shoulders and runs his fingers through his hair. Damian starts to feel torn apart, and the quantity of wounds on him are evidence of his enthusiastic self-sacrifice in exchange for peace of mind to be with Tardif, allow more contact between them. And he too starts to run his fingers through Tardif’s dark auburn hair, and massages the palms of his big hands.

“There was never someone other than you…” Tardif says one afternoon, quietly. It’s raining and they are standing together by the entrance, watching the rain outside. But the roof is so tattered there is rain falling practically all around them.

Damian looks up at him with wide eyes and opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He shakes his head, slowly:

“Tardif, I can’t…” he whispers, looks down and crosses his arms in front of his chest:

“I know… I was just…” The bounty hunter sighs. “Did… did you think of me, like I thought of you?”

The flagellant smiles the saddest smile in the world and looks up at Tardif again, and nods slowly. Tardif tilts his head; Damian’s eyes tell him the war the flagellant has been – and still is – through, and he feels an overwhelming affection towards the other man. He wants to hold Damian, protect him from the world and himself, kiss all those scars, fill him with pleasure, put back whatever was wild and dangerous in his eyes.

The vestal comes running, protecting her bible against her chest, and the bounty hunter decides it’s time to leave.

* * *

 

The flagellant follows the crusader into the sanitarium, through long corridors, dark and filled with pained wails. Then the crusader stops in front of a door and tilts his head towards it:

“He’s completely insane…” Reynauld explains and Damian grimaces:

“More than he already is, that’s difficult…” he grunts, opens the door and enters the room.

It’s claustrophobic, tight and with no windows, there is only one bed and the only source of light is a small fireplace opposite to the bed. Tardif is on the bed, fighting against the leather straps restraining him:

“Tardif?” Damian calls softly, and the bounty hunter stops fighting and turns his head to look at Damian, who comes to sit at the edge of the bed:

“I said I wanted a pony!” Tardif snarls, eyes wide and crazed. Damian frowns, lowers his hood and places a hand on Tardif’s restrained arm when he starts fighting against the leather straps again:

“But you’re too big for a pony…”

“NAY! I AM INVINCIBLE!” Tardif roars. “RAAAAAAH!”

“You’ve always been noisy…” Damian complains without feeling and offers the irrational man a nostalgic smile.

Tardif stops fighting and frowns:

“Why - I've forgotten what I look like under this death shroud! Let me look...” And he attempts to raise his hands and reach his face. Damian sighs patiently and gives a soft squeeze to the arm his hand is resting on:

“You look beautiful, as always…” he says quietly and feels his heart tighten.

Tardif looks around, still frowning:

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

The bounty hunter looks up at him, and now there is madness _and_ sadness in his eyes:

“Then… why didn’t you want me? I didn’t need your protection, I just wanted you…” His eyes tear up and Damian feels suddenly scared; he has come to try to talk some sense on Tardif, not to talk about feelings. At a loss of what to do, he cups Tardif’s face with his hands and thumbs his cheeks:

“I… I didn’t think I was worthy…!” he excuses, and now the bounty hunter is crying openly:

“I just wanted you!” Tardif starts to struggle again. “Life. What a pot of dung. Do you remember those two clients of yours, the ones that beat you up and then were never seen again? I finished them! Ha!”

Damian freezes.

Tardif had killed two of Damian’s abusive clients… just because they had hurt him. Tardif had given himself the work of finding and killing those men… just because of Damian.

The bounty hunter had never told him before, had never asked for nothing in return. He had just… tried to protect Damian the best he could.

The bounty hunter starts rambling about food, but Damian isn’t listening anymore. He realizes he’s crying as well, and if only Tardif had told him about it Damian would not have thought about the church, he would have simply gone with Tardif, regardless of what the bounty hunter’s family could think.

He bents over Tardif and kisses his sweaty forehead, and tries to put into that kiss everything he can’t tell him, everything he can’t do to him.

The bounty hunter goes still and, slowly, closes his eyes. Damian then rests his forehead on Tardif’s, closes his eyes and lets tears stream down his face. For a long time they are silent, until Tardif starts to struggle again, weakly:

“My good sir, I loved a man, you know?” he grumbles. “But I didn’t even know it was love, but I knew it wasn’t just the sex… But I never told him, and now I can’t, because he’s a holy man and he’s had enough of suffering! Can you believe this? Life, what a pot of stinky, stinky dung…”

“I couldn’t agree more with you…” Damian replies, forcing a smile, even though Tardif is too busy looking around again.

* * *

 

In the morning, Tardif wakes up alone. He’s confused for a moment; he’s not in the barracks…? But suddenly he remembers being irrational, remembers Damian coming to him… and remembers saying things that should have been left unsaid.

When a caretaker comes in and unstraps Tardif, he grabs his armor and weapons and runs away from the sanitarium and straight to the abbey. He’s in a panic, he will never forgive himself if he has ruined things between him and Damian again.

He climbs the steps three or four at a time and nearly runs over the vestal in his haste. He darts into the abbey, and this time the steps of his booted feet echo in the emptiness of the abbey.

Damian is kneeling in front of the altar and turns around to face Tardif, who runs at him and falls to his knees:

“Damian, I didn’t mean it!” he apologies, letting go of his armor and weapons to hold Damian’s large shoulders. “I mean… I _mean_ it… but… It wasn’t…!”

Yet, the flagellant smiles and lowers his hood. He looks tired, and the several wounds on his torso and back suggest a busy night after leaving Tardif after he fell asleep. Damian has thought, and has concluded that yes, his life has been all about suffering. Way before being a flagellant.

He has always carried his burden, and now he is in the estate, and has been fighting for the Light, for his redemption.

The several fresh wounds on him are also for Tardif’s redemption. Maybe the Light wants it to be this way, maybe the Light wants Damian to carry one more soul, to punish himself for the greater good of someone else. And maybe, Damian and Tardif meeting again under such circumstances… maybe it is meant to be.

Damian has found peace of mind. His body, so broad and muscular, has the purpose of carrying the heaviest of burdens and be destroyed. He can handle this.

Carefully, Damian cups Tardif’s face with his hands and pulls him closer, pressing their lips together. He has never kissed like this before, but it doesn’t take much for him and Tardif to figure out how it works. The kiss is a gush of wind on embers – all their old feelings, all their old wishes and needs - and the embers set fire and burn them from the inside, so warm and intense, and they hold each other impossibly closer, and moan and pant into the kiss, and the kiss is so fierce and rough their lips are reddened and swollen when they pause to breathe properly.

Tardif needs to sit, and he clumsily changes from kneeling to sitting with his legs spread:

“It’s a dream…” he mutters, and starts to pinch himself. “It’s a dream…!”

“No, it’s not,” Damian assures him. And there’s already something wild lurking from his blue eyes, and Tardif takes in a sharp breath because he has always liked that wild thing, and had never thought he would be able to see it again.

* * *

 

They meet behind the abbey, whether it’s raining or not. In the beginning they exchange passionate kisses and longing stares. Tardif leaves Damian in command, lets him take his time, do as it pleases him – and feels right for a flagellant.

But as time passes by and Damian balances his mundane needs with his holy duties, kissing becomes insufficient, and the flagellant attempts to recover a decade and a few years in even more intense kisses and in exploring all of Tardif’s pleasure points than he can get to: Damian remembers all of them, but can only bite and lick his helix and lobe, and can only bite and lick and kiss and suck his jawline and neck. Tardif’s heavy armor isn’t helpful. On the contrary, the bounty hunter has much easier access to Damian’s pleasure points, and the moment he’s sure the flagellant won’t back away in fear of divine punishment, Tardif bites and licks and kisses and sucks at Damian’s neck, collar bones and nipples – he remembers all the places that conveniently explored make Damian moan and wriggle in pleasure.

And they press their bodies together, but soon come to the conclusion that just grinding against each other is not enough.

“I could get a room for us, if you want,” Tardif says one night, when they are sharing dinner in the abbey. They are sitting together quietly at a corner, while the crusader is praying in front of the altar – the crusader is a regular visitor to the abbey, but his visits have increased.

Damian arches one eyebrow seductively:

“Is that so? Where?”

“The brothel.”

Damian’s seductiveness is replaced by outrage and he opens his mouth, a speech about sin about to be growled at the bounty hunter. But Tardif is faster and speaks first:

“I overheard the jester; not all rooms have prostitutes, you can rent one… and take someone else.”

The flagellant frowns and puffs his chest, still not convinced:

“I’m a holy man, Tardif! I can’t… walk into a brothel! Or be seen walking into one!” he hisses, and Tardif chuckles:

“But in the end, it’s not a brothel! It’s just a room, for us!” He tries to smile innocently, but Damian’s frown just increases. “About you being seen… I have the solution for that.”

* * *

 

It’s a quiet evening in the tavern, but panic ensues when the door opens suddenly and clouds of smoke take over the first floor – the smoke is thick and has an unpleasant smell, and all the adventures are too busy coughing and are partially blind by the smoke to see two men running up the stairs.

When the bounty hunter and the flagellant reach the second floor, Damian can finally cough and wipe tears from his eyes:

“It _stinks_!!” he complains. But Tardif believes his smoke bombs are absolutely perfect:

“And you just wait to see my flash grenades! No one will notice us!” he promises, delighted, grabs one of Damian’s wrists and pulls him along.

Yet someone leaves a nearby room, and Tardif and Damian have a quite shocking encounter with the crusader and the highwayman, and the four men freeze on the spot, looking at each other with wide eyes.

Tardif is the first to break the silence and points threateningly at Reynauld and Dismas:

“You **did not** see us… or everyone will find out you’re a kleptomaniac-“ He points to Reynauld. “-and that you cheat big times,” He points to Dismas.

Then Tardif proceeds his way, dragging Damian along, and they go to the last room in the corridor:

“And what if they **did see** us?” the flagellant asks bitterly when Tardif is about to open the door. The bounty hunter shrugs:

“We ate some funny-looking mushrooms that I mistook for inoffensive mushrooms, then” he replies, and Damian can’t help but burst out laughing.

They get in the room and Tardif locks the door.

Under hood and helmet, they look at each other. A deafening silence surrounds them, making their breathing louder and sharper.

Tardif wants to take control, but he isn’t very sure of what to do. It has been too long, and all he can think off is getting naked and in the bed as soon as possible. Fortunately for him, Damian knows what to do, and he smiles seductively and places a hand on Tardif’s chest and starts to trace with his fingertip the large round buckle that secures the leather strap of the bounty hunter’s shoulder plates. And Tardif, who was already aroused just by being in the room, is now painfully hard:

“I always liked to see you in armor,” Damian purrs and raises his other hand to unbuckle the large round buckle. “But I particularly enjoyed taking it off you…”

Tardif makes a very eloquent grunt and they walk backwards to the bed, slowly, and the flagellant unbuckles the leather strap: and Damian’s body, so big and broad and muscular and scarred, gives off seductiveness and will to please. The shoulder plates fall to the floor and Tardif’s legs hit the bed. He scrambles to the bed, feeling ridiculous for his clumsiness, and realizes he is slightly nervous.

He has no reasons to be nervous, it’s not his first time… neither his first time with Damian.

The flagellant seems to read his thoughts and nudges Tardif’s legs apart, so that he can kneel on the mattress between them:

“Nervous?” he asks in a sense of stating, and Tardif laughs softly:

“How can you tell?”

“I know you,” And the flagellant is the only one who can safely say that. He unbuckles Tardif’s belt and pats his hips, and the bounty hunter lifts his hips just enough for Damian to pull the belt to one side and throw in to the floor:

“You said I was nervous the first time we were together…” Tardif recalls, and there is fondness in his voice. He had been _very_ nervous – it was his first time, after all – and he had been even more the moment Damian stated he was nervous and had felt terrible for being unable to masks his insecurities. But Damian had put him at ease, had taken it all gently until Tardif was feeling sure enough to take control. And it had been wonderful:

“I remember that. You were doing a poor job at pretending you weren’t, Tardif…” Damian chuckles and begins to unlace the padded tunic Tardif wears over his mail:

“Did I ever tell you it was my first time?” the bounty hunter says softly, and Damian stops and looks at him. For a moment he feels sorry that Tardif’s first time was with a prostitute, that the bounty hunter had no one to love him and take him through the experience. But then he smiles widely and bends down to kiss Tardif softly on the lips over the cloth he uses to cover his lower face:

“No, but I’m glad for that,” Damian replies and gets straight again to finish unlacing the tunic. “I’m glad I had the chance to be your first.”

“And only…”

“Stop, you’ll make me cry…” the flagellant grunts, because Tardif will effectively make him cry if he keeps telling him things like that. Damian isn’t used to kind words – not when he was a prostitute, and not now that he is a holy man:

“Then, get to work!” Tardif holds his helmet in place as Damian pulls the padded tunic off. Then Damian lowers his hood and licks his lips, and Tardif sighs in delight:

“As you wish, master…” And Damian sounds so flirty Tardif wiggles his hips eagerly.

Damian laughs and starts to unlace Tardif’s mail, enjoying being in control for the foreplay.

The mail is pulled off, and then Damian pulls off Tardif’s leather gloves and proceeds to unlace his tunic. The bounty hunter groans with want:

“I’m never lacing all of this again…” he complains in annoyance, even though he will do it, of course, to keep the armor in place for his safety:

“You were never patient…” Damian scolds playfully and takes off the bounty hunter’s tunic. Damian looks at Tardif’s exposed torso, to the muscles he knows so well; they’re bigger, broader, and there are fails in Tardif’s chest and abdominal hair where the scars are larger and deeper. Damian traces all the scars with feather-like touches and scratches softly at them, making Tardif moan and throw his head back. “You’ve got some new scars... and definitely more hair.”

“You know damn well I don’t beg!” Tardif grumbles between gritted teeth and babbles something when Damian bends down to give a playful lick at his nipples:

“No, you leave that to me…” the flagellant says, putting lust into every word, and Tardif flails his arms like a child in a tantrum; he remembers all the times he was feeling more playful, and would tease Damian, make him beg, and how he loved to have such power, such control over Damian, even more than what he usually had.

There is a very obvious bulge in Tardif’s breeches, and Damian ignores it in favour of pulling off Tardif’s boots and socks:

“You have an armor kink,” Tardif states eagerly when _finally_ Damian begins to unlace his breeches. But it’s taking so long, the flagellant is being pruposedly slow, and Tardif starts to drum on the mattress with his fingers:

“Why do you say that?” Damian asks conversationally, but his voice is husky and that makes Tardif drum faster:

“All the times we did it while I was fully dressed… and you just said you’ve always liked to see me in armor… and you left the helmet to the end…”

“Busted…” Damian laments dramatically, and Tardif has missed this playfulness of his voice so, so much.

Tardif’s breeches and underwear are pulled off.

The flagellant stares in silence to the naked man – with a helmet – in front of him, and feels a sudden pang of longing. He has missed Tardif so much – this man, not any other man, not his old life… just Tardif.

Damian himself is painfully hard, but he is used to not having his needs taken care of – yet with Tardif, is more about being the bounty hunter deciding _when_ Damian’s needs are taken care of… and Damian has never, ever, walked away unsatisfied.

At last, Damian removes Tardif’s helmet, and is greeted with the most wanting stare the bounty hunter as ever given him:

“My hook, give it to me,” Tardif commands, and Damian bites his lower lip excitedly; things will get interesting.

He does as the bounty hunter says, and Tardif sits on the bed, ties Damian’s wrists just enough to secure them without bruising them, then pats the place where he had been lying on. Damian raises and eyebrow and lies down and Tardif hooks Damian’s arms to the headboard: the flagellant’s arms aren’t forced up and he can rests his elbows on the mattress if he wants, but he’s still restrained nonetheless.

And because Tardif is greedy and has no patience when it comes to pleasure, he hurriedly removes Damian’s collar and hood, unwraps his arm and legwraps and undresses his manskirt and underwear.

The bounty hunter sighs, amazed and feeling oddly at peace, when he sees Damian completely naked in front of him. He’s a stunning sight, so beautiful, even scarred like that.

Tardif lies on top of Damian, their erections touching, and they shudder in delight. And now they can kiss, and they do kiss, and it’s brute and rough and they are not sorry for splitting and biting each other’s lips, nor for licking away tiny drops of blood from each other’s lips.

Just when Damian is starting to feel breathless from Tardif’s vigorous kissing, the bounty hunter moves away, and kisses his jawline, then all the way down his neck and starts to bite and suck at where Damian’s neck meets his shoulder, and the flagellant squirms in pleasure and moans. And he squirms even more when Tardif starts to kiss his shoulders, then the inside of his arms, and then returns to bite and suck at his collar bone. And the bounty hunter starts to grind their erections the moment he bites softly at Damian’s nipples, making Damian arch his back.

It has been so many years… Damian couldn’t even remember what pleasure felt like.

But then it all stops, and Tardif kisses his forehead lovingly and then kneels between Damian's legs and trails kisses down from his chest to the base of his erection, with a few interruptions to lick at a few scars. And then Damian knows what Tardif is about to do, and he frowns:

“Tardif, you never-“

“I’ve watch you do this millions of times!” Tardif replies with a toothy smile, and that makes Damian snort:

“I expect you to exceed my expectations, then…” he warns.

Tardif winks at him and, like the glutton he is, takes Damian in his mouth at once. Or tries to, because he gags, the taste of it strange against his tongue, and overall the largeness too uncomfortable. He pulls away, coughing, and Damian laughs, making Tardif frown:

“I want to do this right for you…”, he grumbles, and the flagellant looks at him with fondness:

“Tardif, just the fact that you’re willing to do it… it’s enough for me…” he says softly, but Tardif isn’t convinced.

The bounty hunter tries again, this time slower, and it’s not that bad. He thinks about trying to mimic the wonderful things Damian used to do to him with the teeth, but maybe when he’s more used to this… And, according to Damian’s moans and the soft bucking of his hips, Tardif is doing more than enough.

Tardif takes his time to explore Damian with his tongue and suck softly with his lips at the head:

“If you keep like that…” Damian warns between moans. It has been… too long. Too long since Tardif took care of him, and if the bounty hunter keeps doing what he’s doing, Damian won’t last long.

Yet Tardif stops, smiling victoriously, trails kisses along the inside of Damian’s thighs and unties the rope around his wrists. He then discards his hook and lies flat on his back, pushing the flagellant playfully:

“Get to work, now,” he commands. Damian winks at him and straddles him, and the bounty hunter sighs; Damian is a stunning sight… and he’s finally his, his alone:

“You want it quick or you want it slow?” the flagellant asks softly, tilting his head, and his blue eyes are piercing and wild and Tardif loves it:

“Do it quick,” the bounty hunter decides, and Damian gives him the most lustful smile ever, and Tardif can’t help but think the holy man straddling him is sin incarnate:

“As you wish, Tardif…” Damian purrs seductively and doesn’t waste time on more foreplay. He simply holds Tardif’s erection with a hand to align it with his entrance and takes him at once.

Damian gasps, his body already forgotten of how it felt, and Tardif moans and squirms and digs his fingers in the mattress. And he begins to laugh, because it feels so good, and Damian is moving so fast and it’s exactly what Tardif needs. The bounty hunter moves cups Damian’s buttocks with his hands, digs his fingers into the soft skin:

“Marking me, already? How greedy…” the flagellant teases and the does _that thing_ with his hips, and Tardif throws his head back, and Damian’s buttocks are going to carry the bruises of fingers for a while:

“Just… just make me…” the bounty hunter grunts and one of his hands takes hold of Damian’s erection.

* * *

 

Shortly after they are both lying on their backs, panting and sticky. They feel numb, light-headed, and Tardif laughs lowly because… a decade and a few more years of stress, grief and wanting have been erased from his body in less than ten minutes. Indeed, it has been too long.

He pulls Damian closer and they snuggle on each other:

“Do you want to recover by yourself, or do you want an incentive?” the flagellant asks and plants a kiss over the bounty hunter’s heart. Tardif hums, feigning thoughtfulness:

“What kind of incentive?” he asks innocently, because he knows what Damian is thinking about. It’s something that has crossed their minds before, but never went further than that.

The bounty hunter wraps his arms around the flagellant and turns around, to lie on his back, with Damian atop of him. And they kiss, but it’s gentle and loving, and makes them warm and cosy inside:

“I love you,” Tardif mutters, breaking the kiss and looking Damian in the eyes. And he has never seen the flagellant so happy, and his blue eyes are tearing up:

“I love you, too,” Damian replies and kisses him again, holds Tardif’s fleshy lower lip between his teeth. “And I noticed you have a dagger... and I remember you have always liked to leave marks on me...”

Tardif takes in a sharp breath, his blood slowly running south:

“Is it, Damian?” he slurs. “On your fours. Now.” He's going to mark Damian his own, he can do it now. Because now the flagellant is effectively his:

"I want you to come to abbey with me, next, and apologize for having sinned," Damian requests and gives him a soft peck on the lips. Tardif nods eagerly; anything, he'll do anything to make Damian happy and have him:

"You'll have to teach me to pray, though." The bounty hunter grins excitedly. "Can I have a reward if I learn to pray in Latin or Greek or whatever language you use to pray...?"

Damian laughs and, slowly, moves away from Tardif to stand on his fours. 

And hopefully they'll make it through it all, until the many years that kept them apart can be looked back and feel like it wasn't an eternity after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Opinions, anyone? Please?


End file.
